


A wonderfully indulgent morning

by jessieb



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 08:54:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17138783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessieb/pseuds/jessieb
Summary: A short (sorry) but hopefully sweet Official Tolkien Secret Santa gift for carnetdesipho.Faramir recounts a 'Sunday morning' where not much happens and not much gets done. I sort of imagine Faramir would have spent a long time trying to reach unattainable standards, and so it takes a while for him to learn to enjoy it.





	A wonderfully indulgent morning

Fourth age Year 8   
Emyn Arnen

The pillow was so soft beneath my head that morning, and the sunlight slipping around the curtains had that cool beauty of winter. With more effort than it should really have required, I turned my head to look beside me; there lay Éowyn, her golden braid beside her upon the pillow. Languid as I felt, I wanted to hold her, but it would not do to disturb her from much-needed rest after she had been awake so late last eve tending to a woman in childbed. It was a difficult birth, and Éowyn had returned exhausted yet triumphant in the early hours. It had filled me with gladness to hear her voice so bright with joy, expounding upon the travails of the evening with her sure healer’s knowledge. And a long, glad sigh as she had settled into her bath, full of contentment and peace. For surely, there could be no greater, nor more satisfying way to care for good and growing things than to deliver a new mother of her child.

Elboron himself would doubtless join us soon; the door to our chamber would burst open abruptly, his warm, sharp (very sharp indeed, and heavy) little form would leap onto the bed, clamber over his father, and burrow into the little pool of warmth our close bodies had created. For his nurse knew better than to corral him on a rest-day morning these days. Not when his mother and father awaited him. 

Soon, I would rise and unlock the door ready for my son’s arrival, then let the warm spring light through the tall windows, and we would watch the day begin over the beloved hills. What a gift it was that such idle mornings as this had lost their gnawing dread, yet retained their novelty. For in those days each week it was a conscious decision I made; a decision, once anathema, not to. Not to rise before the touch of dawn on the treetops, not to dress in the dark and leave Éowyn sleeping as I marched to my office, not to spend the glorious day alone there in relentless work. 

What was the origin of today’s feast day? The name had it’s root in Quenya, perhaps. Surely that linguistics book I had acquired last year would be useful. Later, though. And if that did not yield an answer, perhaps Aragorn might when next they spoke. Fortunately, I knew better than to enquire of Lord Legolas for the answer, after the last absurdity he had spun, which had seemed peculiar at the time but which I had nevertheless believed for months. Aragorn eventually put me right with long-suffering patience, before seeking out his old quest-mate with the glint of retribution in his eye. 

Beside me, Éowyn’s breathing changed, and her eyes opened. ‘Good morning, my husband,’ she murmured, and stretched to kiss me. ‘What has you of all people smiling so this early in the day?’ Her beauty grew with each passing day, and she became ever more noble and more beloved. Though with a merriness in her heart that soothed my own with gladness. 

‘I was recalling the occasion that prompted the King to advise me not to trust a word that leaves the mouth of our neighbour,’ I said. 

‘I see. Never trust the Elf,’ she grumbled, in a fair imitation of Gimli Gloinsson. I imagined her for a moment with axe-wielding arms and the red beard of which he was justifiably proud, adorned in her embroidered nightgown. Then I thought, in that same hopeless way I had thought in the Gardens of Healing, that still would I love her. Perhaps she read something of this in my face, for she drew closer, then knelt up above me. I loosed her hair from its braid, gathered it in my hands, and sat up to kiss her. 

Some time later, I unlocked the door and returned to our warm bed. With Éowyn restful in my arms, and the blankets settled around me, I settled into a light doze. Until there was the oliphaunt slap of feet, succeeded by the bang of the door, and little-boy knees and elbows in all the wrong places. 

‘Mind your mother,’ I murmured. Soon, I would teach Elboron more courtesy, but for now the boy was yet young, and I couldn’t quite bring himself to stop this little ritual. Some mornings, the peace in my heart itself gave me pause; what right have I, such as I am, to joy and satisfaction in such measure? These moments were mercifully fewer of late, and faded more quickly. 

When we left for the day, I draped my mother Finduilas’ mantle around Éowyn shoulders as usual for feast days, and touched her cheek. She settled her hands on my collar, and we shared a kiss. Until a tug on my tunic made me pause. 

‘Father, Mother, don’t dawdle,’ I looked down at his earnest little face, then at Éowyn, to see that she also hid a circumspect smile at our son’s mimicry.


End file.
